


Effortless

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Culmination [2]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3932329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It doesn’t make any sort of logical sense, that after nursing a crush for years all Gokudera’s patience should evaporate at the first suggestion of reciprocation, but logic has apparently taken a holiday along with any sort of cool in his blood." All it takes is a kiss for Gokudera's self-control to evaporate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Effortless

The distance to Yamamoto’s apartment has never felt this far before.

It doesn’t make any sort of logical sense, that after nursing a crush for years all Gokudera’s patience should evaporate at the first suggestion of reciprocation, but logic has apparently taken a holiday along with any sort of cool in his blood. He’s honestly impressed with himself for letting Yamamoto go while they were still at the party, getting off the other’s lap to a chorus of laughter and wolf whistles so he could track down the pants he lost to strip poker earlier in the night before dragging Yamamoto out the door to a more private location. There’s too much he wants to do, too much anxious fire in his blood that demands outlet now that the fuse has been lit, and there’s some panic there too, like if he doesn’t have everything right now it will fall through his fingers, evaporate into nothing at all like so much of the other promised good in his life.

“You live too fucking far away,” he hisses without turning around as they make it past the second block, start on the third. Gokudera’s not jogging, at least not deliberately, but he feels breathless, like there’s not enough oxygen in the world this far away from Yamamoto’s mouth.

“Better my place than yours,” Yamamoto says, sounding like he’s gasping for air and laughing at the same time, the way he hasn’t stopped smiling since Gokudera pulled away from kissing him long enough to take stock of his expression. Gokudera’s towing him by his hold on the other’s wrist, pulling hard enough to prevent the possibility of Yamamoto’s hand actually entangling with his, because he’s not sure he can handle that, here, in public, not when he feels like he’s going to combust or implode around the adrenaline building pressure in his chest.

“Don’t be stupid,” Gokudera snaps, not because he really has any point of disagreement but just from self-defensive habit, prickly backlash to Yamamoto’s cheer too deeply ingrained to easily let go. Habit runs both ways, though, brings Yamamoto laughing bright and delighted, and then they are finally past the last block, turning to round the corner of the apartment gate and moving towards the door at the back of the complex.

Gokudera’s been here before, if rarely past the front door; the inside of Yamamoto’s life has been a dangerous place before now, something he has tried to avoid in desperate attempt to destroy the attachment that has refused to fade with time, refused to migrate to an awkward childhood memory but has only deepened and steadied until it’s hard even to believe that he is here, now, with the taste of Yamamoto’s mouth on his tongue and the heat of Yamamoto’s skin clinging to his.

He lets Yamamoto’s hand go as they approach the door, steps aside so the other can unfasten the lock on the front door. With his arms crossed defensively over the thin of his t-shirt it’s easier for the shadows around them to creep into his mind, easier for his disbelief to gain traction on his rationality. He doesn’t realize he’s biting his lip, doesn’t realize he’s hunching his shoulders, and Yamamoto is just getting the door unlocked and pushing it open when Gokudera blurts, “Are you really drunk or something?”

Yamamoto goes still with his hand on the door, turning to look at Gokudera’s face like he hasn’t seen it before. His smile softens at the corners, starts to fade into a flat line, and Gokudera can feel his stomach plummeting before Yamamoto says, “No,” almost whispering it. “Are you?”

“ _What_?” Gokudera snaps, familiar methods of communication telling him to be aggressive, to lean in rather than show weakness, to get defensive rather than admit how much the question hurts to even hear. “ _No_  I’m not drunk, you think  _that’s_  why I kissed you?”

“You asked me first,” Yamamoto says, and they’re still standing on the front step, the door open but neither of them moving inside.

“Of  _course_  I did,” Gokudera snaps, stepping in from force of habit, his fingers finding a hold at the front of Yamamoto’s shirt as if there’s a target drawn there for him. “It’s been  _years_  and you’ve never been the least bit interested before, why would you suddenly start  _now_?”

Yamamoto huffs an exhale, leans in so his face falls into shadow, so Gokudera can’t clearly make out his expression. “You didn’t think I was interested?”

“Why the  _fuck_  would I think you were interested in me?” Gokudera spits, adrenaline and the heat of the party turning into a burn now, and he’s going to get sex or a fight, either one offering relief for the tension under his skin. “You’re nice to  _everyone_ , you don’t treat me any differently than you do anyone else, you’re just happy and cheerful and  _fucking sunshine_ , how am I supposed to get interest from any of that?” He wants to hit Yamamoto, wants to kiss him, wants to peel his clothes off him and bruise every inch of his skin as a brand. “I thought you liked  _Haru_.”

Yamamoto’s laugh is sharp, a burst in his throat that is as satisfying to hear as it is shocked. It’s almost irritating, to hear one of the worst frustrations of Gokudera’s life so easily brushed aside, but Gokudera is just starting to growl, just starting to twist his hold on Yamamoto’s shirt tighter, when Yamamoto tips his head back so Gokudera can see his reestablished smile.

“Gokudera, I’ve been in love with you since I was fourteen years old.”

Gokudera’s breath catches. There’s cool sweeping through him, easing away the roughened edges of anger and leaving him stripped clean for the heat in its wake, the rush of emotion that prickles in his eyes like tears and tightens his throat so his exhale sounds like a moan instead of the cough of disbelief he meant it to.

“ _God_ ,” he gasps, and “Why didn’t you  _say_  something?” and they’re falling inside more than stepping, Gokudera moving all at once because he has to get Yamamoto past the door or they’ll never make it inside at all. Yamamoto follows, dragged along by Gokudera’s fist at his shirt, and at least he has the presence of mind to shut the door as they make it past the entrance because Gokudera is lost, all his attention occupied in twisting his hand up under the other’s shirt and pushing it high up his chest to bare the inches of tan skin he’s thought about countless times.

“We wasted so much time,” he hisses, and the shirt has to come off but first there’s Yamamoto’s skin to be dealt with, the smooth curve of his shoulder too much temptation to resist. Gokudera leans in for that, presses his mouth to the thin skin just over Yamamoto’s collarbone, and the heat in him isn’t fading or steadying, it’s sparking higher, pounding in his head and fracturing his pulse into desperate half-rhythms. A kiss isn’t enough, lips alone aren’t enough, and he’s pushing a hand around to brace flat at Yamamoto’s back and biting down, marking the fragile skin with the bruising imprint of his teeth like the aggression will stand in for the years of  _not_  doing this.

It doesn’t help. The feel of Yamamoto’s skin giving way to shadowed shape of his mouth just burns Gokudera hotter with anxious desire, even before he hears the way Yamamoto gasps and falls so heavily against the door that it rattles in the frame. Gokudera shifts his mouth an inch, bites again, and Yamamoto’s hands are at his hips, now, urging him in closer until their knees bump and they nearly both fall.

“Bedroom,” Yamamoto is saying, when Gokudera can pull back from his skin enough to pay attention to anything beyond the desperate pace of the other’s breathing. “The bedroom, Gokudera,  _please_.”

“I don’t know where it is,” Gokudera snaps, but he get his mouth away from Yamamoto’s skin, if at the cost of digging his fingernails in against the other’s spine to leave his mark there too. “It’s your goddamn house, idiot,  _you_  show  _me_.”

“Right,” Yamamoto says, “Right, yeah, of course,” and he’s moving, faster than Gokudera expected, sliding free of Gokudera’s hold so for a moment the other is left feeling weirdly bereft as Yamamoto moves past him. Then there’s a touch at his wrist, fingers slipping down to interlace with his own, and any sense of abandonment evaporates into anticipation, any protest turns into a desperate growl on Gokudera’s tongue as he moves down the hall from the tug of Yamamoto’s hand in his.

He doesn’t have time to take stock of the bedroom when they make it through the doorway. Yamamoto turns on the light, which is more than they managed down the main hall, but then Gokudera can  _see_  him, the ever-radiant gold of his eyes and the tangled mess Gokudera’s fingers have made of his hair, and he can see his  _neck_ , the bruised marks of his own teeth rising impossibly fast under Yamamoto’s skin. It’s not satisfaction that burns through him as much as an ache for more, desire that sends him stumbling in closer while Yamamoto is still trying to belatedly kick his shoes free, letting the other’s hand go so he can wind his fingers against the back of Yamamoto’s neck.

“Fourteen, huh?” When he leans in Yamamoto turns his head to the side, offers his neck for Gokudera’s mouth, and it’s the submission of the angle that stalls yet another bite, brings Gokudera’s lips against the salty heat of Yamamoto’s skin less the rough edge of teeth with them. It’s a little bit the alcohol he has had but mostly the rush of disbelief that keeps him talking, that brings the words easy and unfettered without the self-consciousness they would normally have had. “Three whole years you’ve been pining for me and you never said anything?”

Yamamoto makes an anxious sound, a whimper that stalls in the back of his throat. His hands are at Gokudera’s waist, rucking up his shirt until Gokudera can feel the calluses on Yamamoto’s hands dragging friction over his chest. “ _Gokudera_ ,” he says, the name turning into a plea and a prayer and a moan all at the same time, Yamamoto’s voice dropping lower and richer than Gokudera has ever heard it.

“Fuck,” Gokudera says, and steps forward, the motion throwing their balance off until Yamamoto has to stumble backwards, half-fall across the room towards the bed in the corner. The hands at Gokudera’s skin catch at his back instead, reflexive attempt to prevent the inevitable fall that only succeeds in dragging Gokudera down with Yamamoto as they fall onto the mattress. Gokudera lands on the resistance of Yamamoto’s body instead of the soft of the bed itself, but the angle gives him the advantage of position, lets him get a knee up onto the bed to brace himself in place while he grabs at Yamamoto’s shirt to drag it up over his head.

“Do you have  _any_  idea how much agonizing you put me through?” he snaps, continuing to speak while Yamamoto blinks himself into enough coherency to struggle upright, lets his hold on Gokudera’s waist go so the other can strip his shirt off and throw it aside. There’s a lot of skin thus exposed, all of it warm and flushing under Gokudera’s touch, and Yamamoto is falling back to brace himself on his elbows, tipping his head back and gasping a broken inhale as Gokudera spreads his fingers wide, pushes sensation up over the smooth lines of his chest like he’s always imagined doing. It’s as warm as he always thought it would be, Yamamoto’s skin radiant like he’s glowing from the inside out, and better even than his fantasies, better for the gasp of Yamamoto’s breathing and the strength of his legs between Gokudera’s knees.

“You should have  _told_  me,” Gokudera snaps, dragging his hands away so he can peel off his own shirt with as much speed as he applied to Yamamoto’s. Yamamoto’s unfocused gaze drops from Gokudera’s face to his shoulder with the shift, his lips coming open on a breathless whine, and Gokudera is surging forward again, shoving Yamamoto back to lie flat on the bed so he can catch the whimper in the other’s throat against his own tongue. There’s a hand against his back and one up in his hair, and Yamamoto might be being gentle but Gokudera isn’t. He’s digging his hand into the dark of Yamamoto’s hair, licking at the other’s mouth until Yamamoto parts his lips enough to give Gokudera access, and then it’s as bad as it was at the party, worse, because now they’re pressed skin-to-skin and there’s nothing at all to stop Gokudera from acting on all the impulses he’s pushed aside for the last several years.

“Sorry,” Yamamoto says when Gokudera pulls away, sounding so shaky it takes Gokudera a moment to place what he’s responding to in the first place. “I didn’t...I didn’t think you--”

“Yeah,” Gokudera cuts him off without waiting. He has to rock his weight back so he can reach to push his shoes free, pulling himself away from the contact with Yamamoto’s skin, but the movement presses him in flush with the other’s hips, and from the choking inhale Yamamoto takes the change of position is more than acceptable. “That’s because you’re an idiot.”

Yamamoto laughs past the heat fluttering his eyelashes, tips his head up so he can offer Gokudera a glazed-over smile as the other pushes his second shoe free to fall to the floor. “Guess so,” he says, and then he’s sitting up again, his motion smooth and languid like he’s being pulled up by magnetism, a hand coming out to curl around Gokudera’s waist as Yamamoto’s mouth lands at his shoulder. There’s none of the starburst of almost-pain from a bite Gokudera is half-expecting; it’s just a kiss, gentle and careful like Yamamoto thinks he’s going to break, even when Gokudera twists his hand into a fist of the other’s hair and drags past the point of pain.

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto breathes against him, sounding shattered, like his entire conception of the world has given way, and Gokudera catches a breath and moves all at once, twisting sideways so he falls to the mattress, the motion drawn slow by his hold at Yamamoto’s hair and the other’s arm around him. For a minute everything is swinging around, gravity inverting itself and Gokudera’s knee digging in against Yamamoto’s hip; then it’s Yamamoto’s bed under Gokudera’s shoulders, Yamamoto’s shadow falling over the pale of Gokudera’s bare skin, and for just a moment Gokudera’s whole body flushes self-conscious with the suggestion of the position.

Then impatience takes the place of his flush, sets his hands to shove at Yamamoto’s shoulders to push him away. Yamamoto goes after a moment, his expression drawing into lines of confusion even as he moves, and he’s just starting to offer a faint questioning sound when Gokudera growls, “Take your damn jeans off.”

It’s remarkable how fast Yamamoto’s expression goes hot and shadowed. Gokudera can see the focus in his eyes flicker into heat, like he’s staring right through reality and into a glimpse of the future, and when he lets his breath go it turns into a groan as he pulls away to stand instead of lean in over the bed.

Gokudera intends to follow his own advice, to struggle free of his own pants while Yamamoto is doing the same and spare himself the awkwardness of an audience. But Yamamoto moves faster than he expects, is unzipping his jeans while Gokudera is just sitting up, and then he’s pushing the fabric off his hips and Gokudera’s focus short-circuits on the visual of Yamamoto standing in front of him in just boxers, boxers that are doing a spectacularly poor job of covering the tension of his cock hard against the inside of the fabric. He’s staring without meaning to, without having any option to do anything else, and when Yamamoto looks up to see him he can hear the other’s self-conscious laugh without having the ability to look at anything other than the flex of muscle in his legs and the temptation against the front of his boxers.

“You want me to take everything off?” Yamamoto asks. When Gokudera looks up, feeling hazy and adrift, Yamamoto has a hand up in his hair, ruffling the dark strands across the top of his head and flushed with some combination of arousal and nervousness. Gokudera realizes his mouth is open, shuts it at once, and when he starts to blush it’s pure self-awareness, his body going awkward and stiff under Yamamoto’s steady gaze.

“Well we’re gonna have a hard time having sex if you keep your boxers on,” he snaps, even though he  _had_  only meant jeans, even though the words stutter with nerves on his tongue. It doesn’t seem to matter. Yamamoto’s eyelashes flutter, his chin dipping down to cast his features into shadow as he gasps a breath, and Gokudera has to look down in order to get his jeans open and to keep from getting distracted by the friction of Yamamoto’s fingers catching at the edge of his clothes.

It’s easier all at once. Gokudera tries not to think too much about it, moves fast enough that he doesn’t have time to panic as he gets his pants open and shoves them off his hips and down to his knees. The air catches cool at his bare skin, doesn’t let him push aside the awareness of what he’s doing, of how  _exposed_  he is, and for a minute desire and nervousness are evenly matched, pounding panic through his veins until he doesn’t dare look up to see Yamamoto’s reaction. The touch at his hair makes him jump, startles the strain of nerves in him into a jolt of reaction, and when he looks up he’s ready to lash out, knife-edged words rising to his lips in expectation of anything Yamamoto could say.

He’s not expecting the kiss. Yamamoto’s mouth is on his before Gokudera can see his expression, his fingers sinking into the tangled strands of the other’s hair as he leans in to urge Gokudera back. His lips are soft, his tongue hot against Gokudera’s mouth, and Gokudera is grabbing blind at Yamamoto’s shoulders and falling back to sprawl over the bed. His angle is awkward, lingering nerves making his motions jerky and stiff, but Yamamoto is fitting against him as if they’re dancing, as if Gokudera’s movements are elegant and graceful and practiced. Yamamoto’s knee slides between Gokudera’s, there’s the slide and catch of skin-on-skin, and then he’s pressed in flush against the other and Gokudera’s thoughts are going electric and out-of-control, like all his senses are in a slow-motion explosion, until he almost doesn’t process the pressure of Yamamoto’s thigh against his cock or the heavy press of Yamamoto’s length against his hip.

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, a tiny high note of shock. His hand is at Gokudera’s hip, is dragging in across, and Gokudera is just in the middle of taking a breath when his fingers touch flushed-sensitive skin, drag out against the head of the other’s length. “Gokudera, you’re…”

“So are you,” Gokudera manages without waiting for the end of the other’s sentence, rocks his weight up to grind his hip against Yamamoto. The other’s words cut off sharply, turn into a whimper and a reflexive jerk to press himself down, and  _god_  he  _is_  hard, Gokudera can feel the hot spill of liquid catching them together at that point of contact, but this isn’t how he wants it to go, not after waiting all this time for something that he always thought was impossible.

So “Yamamoto,” hard and fast, whip-quick so he can catch the other’s attention. Yamamoto takes a breath, drags his gaze sideways, and Gokudera is speaking as soon as he has gold eyes on his face, even if they’re heat-glazed out-of-focus. “Don’t you have lube or something?”

Yamamoto blinks, stares at Gokudera like he doesn’t completely understand the question. “What?”

“ _Lube_ ,” Gokudera repeats, compensating for his self-conscious flush with grating attention to the word. “Don’t you have any?”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says. When he blinks again some clarity comes back under the shadow in his eyes, focus rising up out of the heat spread out over his expression. “Yeah, yeah, one sec.”

Gokudera slides sideways as Yamamoto pulls away, moves to fit himself against the wall like the stability will help cool the rush of adrenaline in his blood. Yamamoto is stretching out over the sheets, reaching out to rummage through the clutter near the head of the bed and leaving Gokudera free to stare at the line his arm makes, wrist curving into shoulder and down along the plane of his back, all the tanned gold of his skin on display with the careless grace Gokudera has only ever caught a glimpse of under clothes before. It sticks in Gokudera’s chest, pulls his breathing taut and strained, until he’s all but gasping by the time Yamamoto comes back to offer a slippery bottle and a smile bright with success.

Gokudera takes the bottle, pushes himself up until he’s leaning against the wall, can press his shoulders against it to steady himself while he shifts his weight up over his knees. Yamamoto is curling in around him, his hand fitting in at Gokudera’s hip and his mouth returning to the line of the other’s shoulder like he can’t stand to breathe without the friction at his lips.

“Move back,” Gokudera protests without pushing back at all. The bottle comes open under his fingers, the liquid spilling cool across his hand and Yamamoto’s chest both from how close they’re pressed together. “I can’t do this if you don’t let me go.”

“I can do it,” Yamamoto volunteers into Gokudera’s shoulder, his hand sliding around to press against the other’s spine. “If you want.”

Gokudera scoffs, the sound tearing shaky and rough in his throat but still at least approximating the tone he’s aiming for. “No way.” His fingers are cool from the liquid but the angle is familiar, at least, the tension in his legs and the way his wrist has to twist to fit against himself. “Have you ever done this before?”

Yamamoto shakes his head, offers “No,” and Gokudera can feel a knot of irrational tension he didn’t know he was carrying give way, loosen so he can take a deep breath again. It’s absurd, to have hoped that he’d be the first, a stupid thing to attach importance to, but he’s smiling anyway, easing a finger inside himself and letting his breath go as he relaxes against the faint burn of the stretch. Yamamoto makes a sound against his shoulder, pulls away by an inch so he can tip his chin down, and Gokudera knows he’s watching but it doesn’t result in the cringing self-consciousness he expected it to. It flares him hot, instead, Yamamoto’s appreciation audible in his breath and hot in his gaze, until Gokudera’s thrusting in deeper in response, angling his legs a little wider so Yamamoto can watch the motion. The friction aches under his skin, trembles through his legs, and Gokudera is sure Yamamoto can hear the gasp of his breathing but he’s not finding it in him to care very much. He’s too busy reaching out, closing his free hand at the line of Yamamoto’s shoulder to brace himself as he draws back so he can fit a second finger inside.

Gokudera can feel the thought hit Yamamoto, the tension of some unspoken anxiety collect in the skin under his fingers. The steady slide of his fingers stalls, the heat in him chilling with panic, and when Yamamoto says “Gokudera” with his voice taut with concern it’s all Gokudera can do to snap “ _What_?” with any semblance of coherency.

“I don’t--” Yamamoto stalls, takes a breath, looks up to meet Gokudera’s eyes. “I don’t have any condoms.”

“Fuck,” Gokudera spits, but it’s relief and not anger. He pushes in deeper, brings the ache of desire right back up under his skin. “Don’t scare me, I thought you wanted to stop.”

Yamamoto’s forehead creases in confusion. “But--”

“It’s my first time too,” Gokudera says all at once, blurting it out fast like the confession it is. “Okay? You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Yamamoto blinks, looks down to where Gokudera is pressing his fingers as far into himself as he can reach. “Really?”

Gokudera’s chest is tight, something between the heated press of his fingertips and the ache of unrequited desire turned reciprocated, anticipated satisfaction and bittersweet hurt for wasted time. “Yeah, other than like this,” and it’s softer, warmer than he intends, gentle as the fingers sliding over Yamamoto’s shoulder. “Don’t you ever touch yourself, idiot?”

He’s not surprised by Yamamoto’s shocked headshake, is mustering a grin even as the heat in his stomach starts to pool into an ache, the leading edge of pleasure turning into the hurt of unfulfilled desire. “You should,” he suggests, sliding his hand in against the back of Yamamoto’s neck to pull him into a kiss, this one gentler than those before, just the damp slide of their lips together before Gokudera eases his fingers free and moves to lie flat on the bed again. “I’ll show you someday.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto agrees, no hesitation anywhere in his face or voice or motions. He’s just sliding down to follow Gokudera, trailing him like this is where he was meant to be, like he never wants to be anywhere else. The thought makes Gokudera smile in spite of the frantic adrenaline thudding in his pulse, the lightheaded rush saying this can’t be real, this can’t be about to happen, this has to just be a really intense fantasy.

Then Yamamoto smiles, shuts his eyes so he can press his nose to Gokudera’s hair and breathe in, and this can’t be a dream, Gokudera would know the reality of that smile anywhere. The thought makes him laugh, even if the sound is faint and weak with nerves, and when he shifts his legs wider Yamamoto is right there, fitting in between them like this is their hundredth time and not the first.

There’s still some coordination required. Gokudera has to fit his hand down between their hips, reach out to grip slippery fingers against the impossible heat of Yamamoto’s length while he gets his leg up around Yamamoto’s waist and tips himself up off the bed. Yamamoto is breathing hard just from the touch of his fingers, spilling slick against Gokudera’s already-slippery hold, but Gokudera can hardly fault him for that when his own stomach is wet with pre-come of his own, his cock so hard he’s pressing against himself every time he shifts his weight. Yamamoto goes still as Gokudera lines them up, breathlessly silent as he stares down at Gokudera’s face, and it’s not until Gokudera has them as close to ready as he will ever be that he dares to look up.

Yamamoto’s eyes are wide, so dark there’s almost no gold to be seen at all, just the black of his pupils blown wide in anticipation of pleasure. His mouth is half-open, lips parted on the speeding rhythm of his breathing, and Gokudera feels the rush of heat hit him like a physical impact, blowing the air out of his lungs and his intended permission off his lips.

It doesn’t matter. He’s arching up, instinctive pleading that doesn’t need coherency to be understood, and Yamamoto is leaning in, close enough to press his lips to Gokudera’s as he rocks forward to thrust against the bracing hold of Gokudera’s fingers. There’s heat, pressure in spite of Gokudera’s careful preparation; then Yamamoto’s sliding in, slick and wide and hot, and Gokudera is arching clear off the bed without any intention at all. His thoughts are sparking incoherent, his throat drawing tight around the rush of his exhale so it drags into a moan, and Yamamoto is still moving, stretching him wide and flushed and aching all up his spine.

“ _Oh_ ,” Yamamoto’s breathing, whimpering shocked appreciation over Gokudera’s mouth, and Gokudera is on fire and he’s electrified and it’s not enough, it’s too much and it’s not nearly enough, he wants it all at once. He drags his hand down Yamamoto’s back, tightens his legs and scratches his nails against the other’s spine, and when he leans up it’s to hiss “ _Harder_ , Yamamoto” before he presses his mouth to the dark prints of his mouth on Yamamoto’s skin.

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto breathes, sounding wrecked and lost, and Gokudera can feel the other’s hand bracing against the bed, his fingers forming into a fist to hold them steady before he does as told and thrusts forward all at once. There’s a rush of sensation, heat and friction far greater than what Gokudera has ever managed with his own fingers, but Yamamoto’s going deeper, too, hitting nerve endings Gokudera can’t reach alone, pressing in until Gokudera jerks at a burst of sensation, his legs around Yamamoto’s waist sliding loose as his cock twitches and spills pearly droplets over his stomach.

“ _Fuck_.” He can’t see straight, can barely remember where he is; there’s Yamamoto’s hand over his shoulder, the desperate gasp of Yamamoto panting into his shoulder, but mostly it’s just heat, the hot ache of Yamamoto moving inside him and the haze of disbelief burning off his thoughts until he is sure that this is happening right now, these are Yamamoto’s hips pressing against the inside of his legs and the soft of Yamamoto’s hair under his fingers and Yamamoto’s shoulder bruising to the shape of his teeth. It’s hard to let his hold against the other’s back go, even for the worthy goal of jerking himself off; it’s only the desperate raw edge of heat that convinces him, brings his hand into motion before he has decided to let go. Yamamoto is pressed so close they’re catching together at every point of contact, shared body heat turning them both slick with sweat, but there’s still space for Gokudera to get his hand between them, to close his fingers tight on the heat flooding in waves into his cock.

Yamamoto makes a sound, anxious and nearly apologetic, and Gokudera starts stroking, fast and harder even than Yamamoto is moving, too desperate for satisfaction to demonstrate any kind of patience now. He can feel Yamamoto starting to tremble against him, tension collecting in his shoulders and the bracing strength of his arm, and he’s only barely started to slide over himself before there’s heat rushing over him in waves, a premonition of pleasure forming itself in his mind. Yamamoto is thrusting hard into him, it feels like he’s going deeper with every motion of his hips, until Gokudera can imagine he can feel the pre-orgasmic heat tightening the other’s cock harder and hotter inside him.

“Fuck,” he blurts, and he can’t see straight and he can’t think and he has no idea what he’s going to say before he says it. “Yamamoto, fu _ck_  me, I’m gonna--”

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto breathes, that same starstruck moan he had before, and the sound hits Gokudera like a thousand explosions at once, tips him over the edge before he can even think of holding back. He’s crying out, groaning a sound so rough it sounds pained, coming all across his fingers and his stomach and the close-pressed heat of Yamamoto’s chest. Yamamoto moans over him, the noise turning into almost a plea, jerks and loses his rhythm, and he’s coming too, Gokudera can feel the waves of heat inside him as clearly as the shivering pleasure running through Yamamoto’s body.

They are both still for what might be minutes, what feels like hours. Gokudera is the one to move first, in spite of the shaky instability of his legs and his sense that the whole world is a little bit hazier and lighter than it once was. Yamamoto has his head pressed against Gokudera’s shoulder, as heavy as if he never intends to move it again, and it’s not until Gokudera pushes at his hair and offers a half-hearted, “Get off me, I can’t breathe,” that he rolls sideways to sprawl across the bed himself. Gokudera was planning to get up, to go wandering through the apartment in search of a shower and maybe a glass of water, but then Yamamoto is lying flat and blinking a heat-hazed smile up at the ceiling, and the temptation is too much. They ends up right back where they started except for their inverted positions, all Gokudera’s weight resting solidly across Yamamoto’s hips and his hands skimming over the lines of Yamamoto’s shoulders. The movement gets him a blink, a dreamy smile just for him, and when Yamamoto’s hands wander up his back to pull him in closer Gokudera doesn’t protest in spite of the sticky heat at his skin and the half-pleasant ache spreading through his legs.

Yamamoto’s hands urge him close, until their skin is pressed together as closely as they can get, careless of stickiness and sweat alike. His lips catch at Gokudera’s cheek, his breath ruffling hair, and when he says, “Gokudera,” like the start to a sentence Gokudera knows what’s coming.

“Don’t,” he orders, digging his fingers into Yamamoto’s shoulder to underscore his point. “If you try to tell me you love me right now I swear I will lose all respect for you.”

There is a pause. Then, “How much respect did you  _ever_ have for me, though?” and Gokudera groans, turns his head so he can hide his flush against Yamamoto’s shoulder as the other laughs.

He doesn’t actually say it, in the end. It doesn’t really matter. Gokudera can feel it in the trailing fingers against his back, in the heavy relaxation knocking Yamamoto calm and more languid than the other has ever seen him. And he can feel it himself, in the satisfaction so strong in his own chest it feels like an ache, joy so intense it overwhelms any sense of measurement he has ever had for the emotion before.

It ought to be strange, to finally be so close to the person he has wanted from a distance for so long. The only thing that is strange is how easy it is to relax into contentment, as if he has always belonged here, but for once, Gokudera isn’t going to argue.


End file.
